The Goblet of Fire

by J. K. Rowling

  Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of a champion so much more than he did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair and grey eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. Harry actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum’s autograph, begging Cedric to sign their schoolbags one lunchtime.

  Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig was refusing to come anywhere near him, Professor Trelawney was predicting his death with even more certainty than usual, and he did so badly at Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that he was given extra homework – the only person to get any, apart from Neville.

  ‘It’s really not that difficult, Harry,’ Hermione tried to reassure him, as they left Flitwick’s class – she had been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she was some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets and Lunascopes. ‘You just weren’t concentrating properly –’

  ‘Wonder why that was?’ said Harry darkly, as Cedric Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as though he was a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. ‘Still – never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon …’

  Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was about the most unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with Hermione sitting next to him, intoning ‘Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them’ under her breath, and he couldn’t see why today should be any better.

  When he and Hermione arrived outside Snape’s dungeon after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges – then he saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage:

  Support CEDRIC DIGGORY –

  the REAL Hogwarts Champion!

  ‘Like them, Potter?’ said Malfoy loudly, as Harry approached. ‘And this isn’t all they do – look!’

  He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green:

  POTTER STINKS

  The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges, too, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around Harry. He felt the heat rise in his face and neck.

  ‘Oh, very funny,’ Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, ‘really witty.’

  Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking up for Harry either.

  ‘Want one, Granger?’ said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. ‘I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see, don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.’

  Some of the anger Harry had been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. He had reached for his wand before he’d thought what he was doing. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

  ‘Harry!’ Hermione said warningly.

  ‘Go on, then, Potter,’ Malfoy said quietly, drawing out his own wand. ‘Moody’s not here to look after you now – do it, if you’ve got the guts –’

  For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both acted.

  ‘Furnunculus!’ Harry yelled.

  ‘Densaugeo!’ screamed Malfoy.

  Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in mid-air, and ricocheted off at angles – Harry’s hit Goyle in the face, and Malfoy’s hit Hermione. Goyle bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great ugly boils were springing up – Hermione, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth.

  ‘Hermione!’ Ron had hurried forwards to see what was wrong with her.

  Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione’s hand away from her face. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Hermione’s front teeth – already larger than average – were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, towards her chin – panic-stricken, she felt them, and let out a terrified cry.

  ‘And what is all this noise about?’ said a soft, deadly voice. Snape had arrived.

  The Slytherins clamoured to give their explanations. Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Malfoy and said, ‘Explain.’

  ‘Potter attacked me, sir –’

  ‘We attacked each other at the same time!’ Harry shouted.

  ‘– and he hit Goyle – look –’

  Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi.

  ‘Hospital wing, Goyle,’ Snape said calmly.

  ‘Malfoy got Hermione!’ Ron said. ‘Look!’

  He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth – she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape’s back.

  Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, ‘I see no difference.’

  Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears, she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up the corridor and out of sight.

  It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron started shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky their voices echoed so much in the stone corridor, for in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear exactly what they were calling him. He got the gist, however.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said, in his silkiest voice. ‘Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions.’

  Harry’s ears were ringing. The injustice of it made him want to curse Snape into a thousand slimy pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto the table. Ron was shaking with anger, too – for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal between them, but then Ron turned, and sat down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Harry alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, Malfoy turned his back on Snape, and pressed his badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS flashed once more across the room.

  Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him … if only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse … he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching …

  ‘Antidotes!’ said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. ‘You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then we will be selecting someone on whom to test one …’

  Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry imagined picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape’s greasy head –

  And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on Harry’s thoughts.

  It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape’s desk at the front of the room.

  ‘Yes?’ said Snape curtly.

  ‘Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs.’

  Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his eager face.

  ‘Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,’ said Snape coldly. ‘He will come upstairs when this class is finished.’

  Colin went pink.

  ‘Sir – sir, Mr Bagman wants him,’ he said nervously. ‘All the champions have got to go, I think they wa
nt to take photographs …’

  Harry would have given anything he owned to have stopped Colin saying those last few words. He chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring determinedly at the ceiling.

  ‘Very well, very well,’ Snape snapped. ‘Potter, leave your things here, I want you back down here later to test your antidote.’

  ‘Please, sir – he’s got to take his things with him,’ squeaked Colin. ‘All the champions –’

  ‘Very well!’ said Snape. ‘Potter – take your bag and get out of my sight!’

  Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up and headed for the door. As he walked through the Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from every direction.

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it, Harry?’ said Colin, starting to speak the moment Harry had closed the dungeon door behind him. ‘Isn’t it, though? You being champion?’

  ‘Yeah, really amazing,’ said Harry heavily, as they set off towards the steps into the Entrance Hall. ‘What do they want photos for, Colin?’

  ‘The Daily Prophet, I think!’

  ‘Great,’ said Harry, dully. ‘Exactly what I need. More publicity.’

  ‘Good luck!’ said Colin, when they had reached the right room. Harry knocked on the door, and entered.

  He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed, end to end, in front of the blackboard, and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes.

  Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual, and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fleur were in conversation. Fleur looked a good deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera which was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.

  Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly and bounded forwards. ‘Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come … nothing to worry about, it’s just the Wand Weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment –’

  ‘Wand Weighing?’ Harry repeated nervously.

  ‘We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they’re your most important tools in the tasks ahead,’ said Bagman. ‘The expert’s upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,’ he added, gesturing towards the witch in magenta robes, ‘she’s doing a small piece on the Tournament for the Daily Prophet …’

  ‘Maybe not that small, Ludo,’ said Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Harry.

  Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jewelled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson.

  ‘I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?’ she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Harry. ‘The youngest champion, you know … to add a bit of colour?’

  ‘Certainly!’ cried Bagman. ‘That is – if Harry has no objection?’

  ‘Er –’ said Harry.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry’s upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the room again, and opening a nearby door.

  ‘We don’t want to be in there with all that noise,’ she said. ‘Let’s see … ah, yes, this is nice and cosy.’

  It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her.

  ‘Come along, dear – that’s right – lovely,’ said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. ‘Let’s see now …’

  She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into mid-air, so that they could see what they were doing.

  ‘You won’t mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally …’

  ‘A what?’ said Harry.

  Rita Skeeter’s smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag, and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

  ‘Testing … my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.’

  Harry looked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment:

  Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations –

  ‘Lovely,’ said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up and stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leant towards Harry and said, ‘So, Harry … what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?’

  ‘Er –’ said Harry again, but he was distracted by the quill. Even though he wasn’t speaking, it was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence:

  An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes –

  ‘Ignore the quill, Harry,’ said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly, Harry looked up at her instead. ‘Now – why did you decide to enter the Tournament, Harry?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn’t put it in there.’

  Rita Skeeter raised one heavily pencilled eyebrow. ‘Come now, Harry, there’s no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t really have entered at all. But don’t worry about that. Our readers love a rebel.’

  ‘But I didn’t enter,’ Harry repeated. ‘I don’t know who –’

  ‘How do you feel about the tasks ahead?’ said Rita Skeeter. ‘Excited? Nervous?’

  ‘I haven’t really thought … yeah, nervous, I suppose,’ said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke.

  ‘Champions have died in the past, haven’t they?’ said Rita Skeeter briskly. ‘Have you thought about that at all?’

  ‘Well … they say it’s going to be a lot safer this year,’ said Harry.

  The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forwards as though it was skating.

  ‘Of course, you’ve looked death in the face before, haven’t you?’ said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely. ‘How would you say that’s affected you?’

  ‘Er,’ said Harry, yet again.

  ‘Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because –’

  ‘I didn’t enter,’ said Harry, starting to feel irritated.

  ‘Can you remember your parents at all?’ said Rita Skeeter, talking over him.

  ‘No,’ said Harry.

  ‘How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?’

  Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and looked down at the words the quill had just written.

  Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember.

  ‘I have NOT got tears in my eyes!’ said Harry loudly.

  Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pul
led open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them squashed into the cupboard.

  ‘Dumbledore!’ cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight – but Harry noticed that her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess-Remover, and Rita’s clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. ‘How are you?’ she said, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. ‘I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?’

  ‘Enchantingly nasty,’ said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. ‘I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.’

  Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed. ‘I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street –’

  ‘I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita,’ said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, ‘but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard.’

  Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting – Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr Crouch and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

  ‘May I introduce Mr Ollivander?’ said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges’ table, and talking to the champions. ‘He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the Tournament.’

  Harry looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr Ollivander before – he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon Alley.